


Ibeji

by NovaMist



Category: Colbert Report RPF, Fake News RPF, Pundit RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Timeline, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, Best Friends, Community: fakenews_fanfic, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Genderfuck, Het, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Outsider, Pre-Slash, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 22:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaMist/pseuds/NovaMist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Really, Jon and Stephen were never expecting a cantankerous inter-dimensional vortex to open up on the other side of the office water cooler. What they find in the alternate universe on the other side of the vortex is even less expected…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had the basic premise for this story in my mind for years, but I do believe that I have finally found the perfect fandom in which to write this, especially considering how good Stephen looks in drag…
> 
> Warning: There be genderswap, slash, bizarre cracky concept inspired by too many years of watching Star Trek, Sliders, et. al. ahead!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "One moment, Stephen was trying to convince Jon that George W. Bush's worst idea was to hire whoever the hell it was that picked out those God-awful ties he wore, the next, a large, gaping vortex full of swirling colours, mathematical equations and what looked to be various disembodied foodstuffs opened up in the wall behind the water cooler..."

When Jon was four years old, an elderly lady who had spray-painted her whole body neon pink came up to him and offered him a cookie. That was strange. When Jon was eight years old, the girl who sat in front of him in class ran up to him when the classroom was empty, kissed him, and then ran away again. That was strange. When Jon was twenty-one, he smoked so much pot one night that he thought that his car had come to life and was trying to eat him. That was _really_ strange.

But of all the strange things that have happened to Jon in his life, he never really expected that a rip in the space-time continuum to occur while he and Stephen were jokingly arguing over which was Bush’s worst presidential decision.

One moment, Stephen was trying to convince Jon that George W. Bush’s worst idea by far was to hire whoever the hell it was that picked out those God-awful neckties, and the next, a large, gaping vortex full of swirling colours, mathematical equations and what looked to Jon to be various disembodied foodstuffs opened up in the wall behind the water cooler.

Before Stephen has the time to speculate as to what was occurring – and Jon has time to so much as swear – the two men find themselves sprawled on someone’s incredibly expensive-looking Persian rug in a tangle of limbs.

Jon winces in pain as the back of his head connects rather savagely with the floor.

“Jon?”

Dazed, Jon opens his eyes. Having to look up to meet Stephen’s eyes is not a new experience for Jon – Stephen _does_ have three-and-a-half inches over him in height – but having Stephen _on top_ of him was new.

“Jon? Are you all right?”

Jon refocuses his eyes on the man above him, and realises that Stephen is taking his pulse, long fingers gently pressing at the juncture of his neck and jaw. “Err…” Jon manages. Stephen is still half on top of Jon, and Jon's finding it difficult to think.

“Jon?” Stephen asks again. “Are you hurt?”

Slowly, Jon shakes his head, and then wishes that he hadn't, as his vision clouds. “Uhhh...no, I don’t think so. Are you?”

Stephen smirks, although it doesn’t mask the worry in his eyes. “You broke my fall.”

“Glad to be of service.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounds slow and fuzzy, like he’s underwater; his surroundings seem to be caught in slow-motion. Only Stephen appears to be moving normally, and Jon finds himself clinging to him.

“Jon?” Stephen is smiling, seeming more amused than offended by Jon’s sudden closeness.

_Then again, Stephen is the one on top of me…_

“Jon? Do you think you can stand?”

“Uh…”

Stephen jumps to his feet with far too much fluidity and grace for Jon’s liking, and then leans back down, offering his hands to Jon.

Jon sways unsteadily, and Stephen pulls Jon toward him. Jon grasps at Stephen’s shirt in a vain attempt to stay on his feet. “Ugh, I’m dizzy…”

“Are you all right?” Stephen asks, one hand resting on Jon’s waist, the other resting gently on Jon’s forehead. “You feel awfully warm…”

“Maybe it’s because the human furnace known as Stephen Tyrone Colbert landed on top of me?” Jon suggests, trying to sound irritable while leaning into the comfort of Stephen’s warmth. “Or maybe it’s a side-effect of our trip here?”

“Jon? Is that you?”

Stephen’s unspoken question – “What trip?” – dies in his throat at the sound of a disembodied female voice that, for a moment, Jon could swear that he recognises.

“Jon?” she calls again.

Jon and Stephen freeze, Jon’s fingers still tangled in Stephen’s shirt.

“Jon? Honey?”

Jon and Stephen look at each other in bewilderment.

“Honey?” Stephen whispers, incredulous. “Have you got a mistress stored away in this secret mansion of yours, Jonathan?”

“I’ve never seen this house in my life, you idiot! I’m not rich enough to afford a place like this!” Jon hisses. “And whoever that woman is, I don’t recognise her voice!” _Well, not entirely...Jesus, who is she? Where do I know that voice from?_

Stephen frowns, and Jon fears that he's been found out...

“This isn’t your house?”

“No!” Jon hisses, more in relief than irritation.

“And it isn’t my house…”

“Surely by this point of your life you’re aware of the real estate that belongs to you, Stephen!”

“Where are we, then?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Jon snaps. "There was that weird vor–"

“Jon? Is everything all right?” The female voice again.

Stephen frowns, looking around frantically as he tries to get his bearings. “Who is she?”

“I don’t know!” Jon snaps. “Why do you assume that I know who she is?”

“She’s calling out to _you_!”

“I don’t know! Maybe she’s in cahoots with the water cooler and they formulated an Evil Plan to abduct us and bring us here so that we can be her sex slaves.”

Stephen just blinks.

Jon rolls his eyes. “I _don’t know_ who the fuck she is!”

“But–“

“How do we get out of here?” Jon interrupts. He takes a step back from Stephen, but the room starts spinning again. _Are my eyes playing tricks on me, or is that a real Picasso?_ Jon wonders as the wall spirals in front of his eyes.

“Stay still, you idiot!” Stephen mutters, pulling Jon back toward him again. “Maybe your mystery mistress will let you lie down until your head clears…”

“She is not my fucking mistress, Stephen!” Jon hisses. “I don’t know who she is!”

“Jon?” the strange woman calls out again. “Who are you talking to, honey? I didn’t think Steve was coming over until later.”

“Steve?” Jon asks, still reeling on his feet. “Does she mean you?”

Stephen frowns; Jon can practically see the wheels turning in his head. “Well, one thing’s for sure,” Stephen mutters after a long moment. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

“Why do I have to be Toto?” Jon demands in a way that he would find idiotic if he weren’t so busy trying to figure out how he and Stephen got from the hallway outside Stephen’s office to…wherever the hell they are now.

“I’m taller.” Stephen can’t help but smirk a little at the annoyed look on Jon’s face.

“Yeah, you’d look great in blue-and-white gingham and those shiny red shoes!”

Stephen opens his mouth to retort, when, behind them, a door slams, and a shockingly familiar voice calls out, “Sweetheart? You home?”

There is a sudden rush of footfalls on the stairs that Jon hadn’t noticed were behind him. "Jon, there you are! I wasn’t expecting y–"

The woman falls silent quite suddenly; her footfalls stop. “Jon?”

Panic rising, the two men look up at the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman standing less than six feet away from them.

She might be a crazed fan who used the office water cooler and some sort of vortex to kidnap them, but damn if she isn’t the most naturally stunning-looking woman Jon has seen in quite some time. “I could be her sex slave,” Jon whispers blearily to Stephen, who is merely standing there, gaping like a fish. “Stephen, stop ogling the poor woman!”

The woman just looks at them in shock, her eyes drifting between them and at a spot in the near-distance.

“You were right, sweetheart!” The man’s voice again; Jon notices with some interest that as a realisation of some sort crossed Stephen’s face, he has gone as white as a sheet, and Jon’s curious as to why. Jon knows that voice from somewhere, but his foggy brain can’t quite place it…

“All I had to do was nag–”

Stephen turns his head towards the doorway as the man walks in, and Jon sways woozily in his arms.

“Hey!” Jon protests. “I’m still dizzy, here!”

“–and...oh, what the-!”

“What?!” Jon snaps. “For God’s sake, where the hell are we?” Jon looks back at the woman, who is shaking, her hand over her mouth in an expression of either worshipful devotion or pure terror (Jon never can tell them apart).

“Jon?” Stephen whispers, still looking at the other man.

Frowning irritably, Jon turns his head back towards the doorway, hoping to talk some sense out of The Guy With The Familiar Voice. “Can I at least get some aspirin for this…”

But he falls silent as he looks at the man in the doorway…and sees his own shocked face looking back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're Jon Stewart." Stephen says to the other man. It isn't a question, it's a statement, and Jon doesn't know whether he should feel offended that the man he considers to be his best friend has bestowed this…this impostor…with his name and identity.

For a long moment, no one says anything, no one moves.

Normally, during such uncomfortable silences, Jon’s various neuroses take over and he has to start talking. But Jon is absolutely speechless. The guy who could be Jon’s taller, younger, more handsome identical twin appears struck dumb; his mouth is hanging open, his eyes wide, his face almost an exact mirror of Jon’s own.

_Who is this guy?_ Jon asks himself, unable to put his thoughts into coherent words. _Some sort of look-alike?_ Of course, as Jon was having trouble computating, let alone admitting, this man was not an exact carbon copy of him by any stretch of the imagination. This guy was at least five years younger than Jon, and about three inches taller. Jon felt a flare of annoyance when he realised that despite the height difference, their weight was probably the same: Jon hasn’t been that slim in more years than he cares to calculate.

While Jon and his ‘twin’ both stand there with their jaws on the floor, it is obvious that Stephen has formulated something at least mildly resembling a plan.

“You’re Jon Stewart.” Stephen says to the other man. It isn’t a question, it’s a statement, and Jon doesn’t know whether he should feel offended that the man he considers to be his best friend has bestowed this…this _impostor_…with his name and identity.

The Other Jon looks surprised. “Yes, I’m Jon Stewart,” the man replies, a friendly smile that doesn’t reach his eyes plastered on his face. “Are you friends of my wife?”

“I’ve never seen them before in my life, Jon,” his wife replies, unmoved from her place on the staircase. “Well, I mean, I thought that he was you, for a moment–“ she corrects herself, pointing at Jon. “–and he certainly reminds me of someone, but I can’t…I can’t place it…”

The Other Jon turns back to face the two intruders, locking his eyes on Stephen’s face in a way that Jon feels is overly intense. He’s about to protest on Stephen’s behalf when the man’s gaze drops and he rubs a hand tiredly over his eyes. “He looks like your father, actually. If James had a full head of hair, of course…”

“Jon?” the woman asks, her dark eyes flitting momentarily back in Jon and Stephen’s direction, as if making sure they aren’t hiding any dangerous weapons. “Are you all right?”

He smiles at her; his eyes look tired, as if they belong to someone older. “Yes, just a long few days at the office.” He turns back to Jon and Stephen. “If I didn’t know any better,” he says to Jon. “I’d think you were either my long lost brother – or perhaps a cousin – or some sort of doppelganger.”

Jon just stares at him, dumbfounded. _I wonder if he works out regularly?_ Jon finds himself thinking, the haze in his mind stubbornly refusing to clear. _This guy is almost literally half the man I am…_

Without even looking, Jon can practically feel the woman’s dark eyes burning into him; he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. _She probably thinks I’m fat…and short…and grey…compared to this…this…_

“Well?” 'This' asks, biting impatience colouring his words. “Who are you? A stalker? A look-alike? A stalker who’s made himself into a look-alike through extensive plastic surgery?”

“Err…” Jon mumbles in response. _What the…_

“Extensive plastic surgery?” Stephen cuts in.

Jon and his doppelganger both turn to face Stephen at the exact same moment…just as their faces twist into identical frowns as Stephen ignores them and looks at the woman on the staircase. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon sees the woman give Stephen a nod and a strange smile.

_She may not be my secret mistress, but I’ve certainly seen her before…_Jon frowns again as Stephen nods and smiles at the woman in return. _Jeez, they really look ali–_

“Oh, holy fuck!” Jon yelps in a way he may have found embarrassingly unmanly had he been paying attention. “The vortex! You…her…_Star Trek_…Spock’s beard…no! It _can’t_ be!”

The Other Jon looks alarmed. “What?!” he demands. “Right, that’s it – I’m going to do what I should have done ten minutes ago!”

“What?” Stephen and the woman ask in unison.

“Call the fucking cops!” the other Jon snaps. “Whoever the fuck you are, you aren’t getting away with breaking and entering!”

“You can’t be charged for breaking and entering when it is technically your own house, sweetheart,” the woman says calmly.

Her husband looks at her blankly. “What?”

She smiles at him, her eyes shifting to meet Jon’s after a moment…and Jon feels like kicking himself for not noticing it earlier. “I don’t believe it…” And to think that he and Stephen had only just had a _Star Trek_ marathon featuring all this parallel universe episodes. Jon figured it was a good sign that this woman didn’t have a beard…for several reasons, actually…

Her smile grows. “You said something about a vortex?”

“It opened up behind the water cooler,” Stephen explains while Jon stands there and gapes.

“The water cooler?”

Stephen nods. “Who knew the office wall would be an inter-dimensional hot-spot?” He looks around; Jon, still clinging to Stephen’s shirt, subconsciously follows him. “It doesn’t look like the vortex sent us to the exact same place geographically, though.”

“Perhaps a slight difference to the speed that the planet rotates between the dimensions? Or something to do with the velocity of the vortex?”

Jon looks up from the floor in shock. “What?” he asks softly, hardly able to speak. He doesn’t believe it. He just _can’t_ believe it…

The Other Jon more than makes up for it. “I love you, really I do, but what the fuck are you and your new friend talking about, Stephanie?”

“Stephanie?!” Jon blurts. “He’s Stephen.”

Stephanie nods. “Makes sense.”

“No it fucking doesn’t!” The Other Jon retorts. “Stephanie, what the fuck is going on? Is this some sort of elaborate practical joke? Because I’m really not–”

Stephanie laughs. “Sweetheart, I wouldn’t do that to you!” Still smiling, she sweeps down the remaining stairs, and extends her hand to Stephen. “My God, never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine this would really happen!”

Stephen extends the hand that isn’t supporting Jon in his ongoing quest for balance. “It’s funny,” Stephen says as they shake hands. “Jon and I only just watched all the alternate-universe _Star Trek_ episodes!”

“Lucky neither of you have a beard!”

“That’s what I was thinking…well, sort of...” Jon mutters…only to hear his – what? Alternate self? – saying the same thing.

“Aw, they share a brain!” Stephanie says, sounding a little too happy with the circumstances for Jon’s liking.

_What is going on? A vortex? A female Stephen Colbert? A parallel fucking universe? Holy..._

“Jon?”

Jon can feel Stephen’s hand on his forehead. “Are you all right? Jon!”

Jon looks up, startled.

“You’re hyperventilating. What’s wrong?”

“I…I…I…”

“What’s wrong?” Stephen asks, the worry in his eyes something that Jon finds endearing and concerning at the same time.

“I need to lie down…”

“Okay…” Stephen says, alarmed. Jon swallows heavily; he doesn’t like to worry Stephen…not after the way that Stephen worried so much about Jon’s smoking, and his diet, and his exercise routine, and his sleeping habits, and his caffeine intake, and his–

_Aw, I’m an awful best friend…_

“No, Jon, really you aren’t,” Stephen replies, to Jon’s alarm. As he’s trying to figure out if he still possesses an internal monologue, he could swear that Stephen lifts him into his arms.

“Stephen…”

“Here, there’s a bedroom through here…” Stephanie says.

Jon can feel Stephanie’s small, soft hand on his arm, rubbing comforting circles into his skin. Her touch is alien and familiar all at the same time, something comforting in a strange place, a strange situation that he doesn’t understand...

She smiles at him. “It’ll be okay. You’re tired…and it’s an awful shock…just breathe...”

Jon nods, closes his eyes; he can’t take this. She’s too like him, too _unlike_ Tracey…

Jon hears Stephen ask if they should undress him before they put him in the bed, and Jon wants to laugh hysterically until he feels Stephanie pulling Jon’s shoes off, and then his necktie, gently, as if she doesn’t want to disturb him.

“Here’s another pillow,” Stephanie says softly. “It’s softer than the one on the bed. There's a water bottle on the bedside table.”

“Thanks,” Jon murmurs, suddenly tired as he hears her fluff the pillow, and then put it under his head. She puts the duvet over him, and whispers “we’re just outside if you need anything”, before she gently closes the door.

Smiling slightly, Jon rolls onto his side, the feeling of being watched over strangely warm and unexpected in his belly. His mind still foggy, his mind drifts as he falls to sleep. _Geez, she’s pretty…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glint of gold catches Stephen's eye, and his jaw almost unhinges. There, on the mantle, amongst the Emmys and the Peabodys, (and the various other awards Stephen barely sees), sit three Oscars. 'You're an Oscar winner?' Stephen asks Stephanie...

Stephen always knows he’s headed for serious trouble when the backs of his eyeballs burn and his temples ache and the tension trickles from the top of his head, all the way down to his toes like a vicious snake. As he follows Stephanie out of Jon’s room, he closes his eyes momentarily to stave off the pain of the blazing headache that is forming inside his skull, and almost runs head-first into…Jon. Well, the _Other_ Jon.

“Oops! Sorry!” Jon’s alternate grins. “He might need this,” he explains, holding up what Stephen assumes is his spare inhaler.

“We’re the same height.” The words are out of Stephen’s mouth before he can stop them; headaches of the horrific magnitude this one is showing signs of becoming often make him say silly things, but he really does find it shocking to find himself looking directly into Jon’s eyes without having to crouch, sit down or have Jon stand on a box.

To his relief, Jon-the-alternate merely smiles in amusement. “How tall – or, rather, short – is he, anyway?”

“Five-foot-seven, apparently.”

Stephanie giggles. “I’m only five-foot-six!”

“Well, I knew you’d eventually end up taller than me,” Jon’s counterpart says with mock-sadness. “I’ll be back in a sec,” he whispers as he disappears into the bedroom.

“You look like you need a drink,” Stephanie tells Stephen, taking him by the arm and leading him into the most enormous kitchen Stephen has ever been in…and that includes Gloria Vanderbilt’s. (Frankly, Stephen was afraid that he had outstayed his welcome in Anderson Cooper’s social circle when he and Jon did nothing but gape and giggle at the size of that Vanderbilt Mansion. “You really know how to do something with nothing, Ms. Vanderbilt,” was – thankfully – a joke that Gloria found amusing.)

“Wow,” Stephen breathes, blindly taking the glass of homemade lemonade that Stephanie hands him.

“Is something wrong?”

“What?” Stephen replies, not even aware of the way he is mirroring Stephanie in both speech and stance. “Oh! No, it’s just…you have an amazing kitchen,” Stephen has to smile at Stephanie’s raised eyebrow. “An amazing house, really. It’s just…_huge_. I could never afford a place like this…” He stops, his wistful words trailing off into stunned silence. He just doesn’t understand; Stephanie's life seems so _different_ to his own...should he be bewildered or envious?

But he can’t think clearly; his headache is intensifying in the light of his confusion. “But…I am you…so…”

Although she is smiling, Stephanie frowns; Stephen is relieved to see that she is just as confused as he is. “What do you do, Stephen?”

“I’m a…well, I’m a comedian, apparently," he allows the serious young man of his youth a moment of amused disgust at his words; considering his current, bizarre situation, why shouldn't he? "Currently I’m hosting a satirical late-night talk-show."

Stephanie looks almost ridiculously relieved to hear this as she leads Stephen into a large, spacious office. “That’s what Jon does, too.”

Stephen smiles as he takes in the room around him. Tastefully decorated, but not overdone. Really, it’s just a larger, far more nicely-furnished version of the office he keeps in his own home, right down to the framed movie posters on the walls. _Really the same could be said of the rest of the house..._ Stephen thinks to himself. “Well, _The Colbert Report_ is a spin-off of _The Daily Show_…”

The confused frown returns to Stephanie’s face. “You work with Steve?”

“Steve?” The frown on Stephen's face is an exact mirror of his alternate's, right down to the little line between his eyes that Jon loves to make fun of during late night writing sessions, while they run on nothing but caffeine and greasy take out and their own chemistry. “Steve who?”

“Steve Carell.” Noticing Stephen’s blank look, Stephanie continues, “From Second City?”

The fact that Stephanie does indeed know who Steve Carell is escapes Stephen entirely. “Steve Carell hosts _The Daily Show_?”

“Yeah, he came in after that prick Kilborn got the bullet.”

“Jon got the hosting job after Kilborn,” he says quietly. _Even though Steve wanted it…even though _I_ wanted it…_

His counterpart frowns. “How could Jon host _The Daily Show_ and _Late Night_ at the same time?”

Stephen gapes at Stephanie. “Jon got _Late Night_ off Letterman?” he whispers. “He beat Conan?”

“Conan? The Schwarzenegger character?” Stephanie asks, voice distant, as if she is imagining Ah-nuld hosting a satirical daily news show (or perhaps even the showdown five-foot-seven Jon Stewart had to have with him to win the hosting spot), but Stephen cuts her off before she can say anything more.

“No, Conan _O’Brien_ – tall, lanky redhead.”

There is long silence. Stephen wonders if Stephanie is questioning his sanity. Really, Stephen’s starting to think that he’s totally lost it, and this whole thing is some sort of stress-related delusion brought on from watching too many episodes of Sliders back-to-back when he and Jon crashed at Stephen’s rented place for the weekend and…

“Wait – you mean _Connie_ O’Brien, right?” Stephanie asks, her voice cutting into Stephen’s thoughts. “Constance, not Conan. She's one of the writers for _The Simpsons_ and _Futurama_. Matt Groening worships the ground she walks on.”

Stephen, unsure how to react to this new information, is silent for a long moment. “No, I mean _Conan_, trust me. Conan looks like a strong breeze would blow him away he’s that skinny, but he’s at least six-four…”

Stephen shakes his head, and rubs a hand over the stubble he can feel growing on his jaw; it’s beginning to itch, and he has to admit that his facial hair has always annoyed the shit out of him, even when he was a Serious Young Actor With An (Intermittent) Beard. He looks back at Stephanie, and he realises – rather belatedly, he admits to himself – that their career paths must not have been the same. “Er…you…”

It's as if Stephanie has read his – _their?_ – mind: “I’m an actor.”

Stephen is almost ridiculously relieved; they have something in common, other than DNA and…well, _Jon_.

But that’s really something Stephen would rather not think about at this point.

“Do you work in the theatre? Television?”

“In films, mostly.”

Stephen's eyebrows shoot up of their voilition. “So you made a success of a movie career?”

A strange look crosses her face, and for one awful moment, Stephen fears for the worst. _Oh God, what if I’ve offended her? What if she tried and failed and–_

“Stephanie, I…” Stephen’s apology fades into nothingness as his gaze falls on the movie poster mounted on the wall directly behind Stephanie. A brunette woman sits on Billy Crystal’s lap, her hand in his hair as she smiles, her eyes cast upwards, one leg gracefully extended, drawing the viewer’s eye to the film’s title, **_WHEN HARRY MET SALLY…_**

“Oh, my God…”

** _THE MUST-SEE COMEDY HIT OF 1989!_ **

“NEWCOMER STEPHANIE COLBERT IS A BEAUTIFUL, SEXY AND RIP-ROARINGLY FUNNY SENSATION!”  
\- PETER TRAVERS, ROLLING STONE

Stephen knows that his mouth is hanging open and that he probably looks undeniably stupid, but shock is creeping through him at an agonisingly slow speed and his body isn’t totally under his own control at this point: his eyes keep drifting around the walls of their own accord. The films advertised are comedies, dramas, romances…they have nothing in common other than the name Stephanie Colbert emblazoned above the films' titles, alongside names like Robert Redford and Sally Field and Tom Cruise and Robert Downey Jr…

Stephen’s chest constricts in a way that would have made him worry had he been paying attention. His breathing is erratic and he can hear Stephanie’s voice, but it is distant and faint and he can’t make out the words. All he can see is the blur of colour and lines and shadows that make up the movie posters on the walls.

**_MISSION IMPOSSIBLE 2_** – in which “Cruise and Colbert sizzle in a blast of thrills and suspense”, according to Peter Travers of _Rolling Stone_ – is mounted on the wall next to **_STEEL MAGNOLIAS_** (in which “Stephanie Colbert is radiant…a true star in the making!”, raves Roger Ebert of the _Chicago Sun-Times_). Next to **_STEEL MAGNOLIAS_** is a poster that Stephen would (sadly) know anywhere: the word _BELIEVE_ above two glowing figures wrapped in a passionate embrace, and Janet Maslin of _The New York Times_ proclaiming that the film is “moving….Downey Jr and Colbert are a dream to watch!”

“You were in _Ghost_ as well?” Stephen asks, his voice thin and raspy and quiet; he isn’t proud to admit it, but the sheer _envy_ is choking him.

“Yes…” Stephanie’s own voice is soft with uncertainty, but Stephen doesn’t notice.

“That film made half a billion dollars, and that was just in the theatres.”

Stephanie doesn’t reply; but then, he didn’t ask her a question. She smiles shyly, and shifts her feet about on the thick carpeting.

“You’re a movie star.”

“I’m just an actor…”

“No, you’re a fucking _movie star_, Stephanie. My God, I couldn’t get a fucking _job_, and you’re starring in films that make hundreds of millions of dollars?”

“Er…” Stephanie is blushing furiously.

“That’s amazing…” Stephen laughs; he just cannot _fucking_ believe it. _Good Morning America_ left him so high and dry that he had to secretly skip a few meals to make sure his wife and child were fed, and all along all he’d needed to be a huge success was to get rid of his Y chromosome. Rubbing furiously at the back of his neck to try to alleviate some of the tension, Stephen shifts his gaze to the left only to have the words **_IRON MAN_** assault his eyes in big, gold letters.

"'Colbert’s gutsy, rapid-fire performance throbs with dramatic energy and action-movie heroine punch," says Joe Morgenstern of the _Wall Street Journal_. Congratulations. That’s high praise indeed."

“Er…well, it was a fun film to make…”

Stephen can’t help himself; it’s like he’s got a horrible case of verbal diarrhoea that specifically targets sensitive subject areas in conversation. “How much money did you get for it?”

Stephanie is quiet for a long moment; Stephen can feel her eyes burning through him, but he doesn’t care. His head is throbbing and his ear is ringing and he’s having trouble breathing and it's an insensitive question, but she's _him_, damnit, and he needs to know what he did that was so wrong. Surely it wasn't just his _gender_?

“Thirteen million, plus five percent of the box office takings.”

Stephen wrinkles his nose. “That's it?”

“Er…it wasn’t a lead role.”

Stephen swallows. “What do you normally get?”

Stephanie smiles, and Stephen can see the shy pride in it. “Twenty-five million, plus fifteen percent of the gross.”

“Holy fuck. That’s amazing!” Stephen is so startled that he can’t even think about formulating a crack about crossing and redefining genres. He'd only ever _dreamed_ about that sort of money. Casting his eyes around the room again, Stephen berates himself: _it's almost like I'm _intentionally_ trying to depress myself_. Alongside the the posters for films of the calibre of **_BRIDGET JONES' DIARY_**, _**ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND**_ and _**MILLION DOLLAR BABY**_, another very familiar poster catches his eye. The title reads: **_THELMA &amp; LOUISE._**

To see that infamous Polaroid shot of two grinning women with no idea of the awful fate that lies ahead of them, with a face so similar to his own peering out of it, is a truly bizarre experience, to say the very least…

_ **NOMINATED FOR 6 OSCARS, INCLUDING BEST ACTRESS…TWICE!** _

“You were nominated for an Oscar, too?” Stephen blurts, feeling both proud and jealous of at the same time – a strange, twisted emotion he honestly never expected to feel.

“Yeah…a couple, actually…”

She falls silent as Stephen spots the mantelpiece at the other end of the room. Above it, is a large, framed poster of Jon’s alternate hosting _Late Night with Jon Stewart_, a beautiful woman in a purple dress, her long, dark hair falling halfway down her back as she leans in towards Jon, her hand on his as he looks at her like she’s the only person in the whole world…

_That’s Stephanie,_ Stephen realises, rather belatedly. “You look really happy.”

Stephanie laughs softly. “We got married after we filmed that.”

Stephen looks back at her. “When? At midnight?”

"Pretty much," Stephanie smiles. “Jon was getting all freaked out, thinking that I didn’t really want to marry him because I wasn’t poring through every issue of _Cosmo Bride_ ever printed, or contacting wedding planners. But a marriage is between two people who love each other; a lot of the best weddings are, too. Just two people, promising to spend the rest of their lives together.”

“That’s lovely,” Stephen says quietly. _But wait..._ “You didn’t get married in a church?”

Stephanie laughs - and rather derisivley, Stephen realises with a jolt. “No, at the courthouse. It was as a special favour. The last thing I wanted was a big frilly dress and nine bridesmaids and three hundred guests and a photo deal with _US Weekly_, lucrative though it would have been.”

“No one wanted a photo deal when I got married,” Stephen jokes; the shadow that has passed across Stephanie's face is unsettling, and Stephen longs to lift it, despite the strange, almost unsettling, inkling Stephanie's laughter has given him. _I wonder...did Jon not want a church service? Did he even convert? Or did _she_ convert?_

“Lucky you,” Stephanie says darkly. “The press hounded us for weeks over the wedding, wanting photos and bits of my dress and a recording of the vows.”

Stephen frowns, thoughts of wedding services cast aside; he can’t imagine that sort of furore occuring because of _him_. The worst thing that’s ever happened to him due to his fame – mainly to do with neo-conservatives or neo-liberals who don’t get it (the dichotomy is not lost on Stephen) – doesn’t even begin to compare. He is about to speak – what exactly he was going to say is lost on him – when a glint of gold beneath the poster’s frame catches his eye.

His jaw almost unhinges. There, on the mantle, amongst the Emmys and the Peabodys, (and the various other awards Stephen barely sees), sit three Oscars.

“You’re an Oscar winner?” Stephen asks dumbly. He gestures at the statuettes on the shelf, “They’re all yours?”

Stephanie opens her mouth, but before she can even speak…

“Stephanie!” Lorna Colbert calls. “We’re back!”

“Mom?”

Stephanie looks at him, surprised, and Stephen shrugs. “I’d know that voice anywhere,” he says, feeling sheepish, like he’s eleven years old again and the new kid in the neighbourhood, strange because of his country roots and his quirky ear and his mother, whose all-encompassing grief is as visible as the black clothes she always wears. _“Beastly family tragedy,”_ said the locals. _“She lost her husband and sons in a plane crash, that big one that was all over the news. Terrible, just terrible.”_ The pitying looks they gave he and his mother still sting, like a scab that has never properly healed, despite the time that has passed and the vast distances he has travelled.

“Stephanie?” A man calls out. Stephen frowns; he knows that voice. Endeavouring to focus on the sound of the voice, he squints, an awful habit his father long tried to break him of. _“Stephen, I know it’s difficult, but squinting like that will not help you to focus on sounds. It’ll just give you crow’s feet when you get older.”_

“In here!” Stephanie calls out. Dropping her voice, she whispers, “Stephen, are you all right?”

“That voice…who is that?”

Stephanie frowns. “Which voice?”

“You won’t believe this!” The man calls out again, and Stephen squints even harder, trying to voice on that strange voice, its familiarities, its pitch, its rises and falls. _Who is that? I _know_ that voice!_

“That little bookstore I was telling you about?”

_“Stephen!”_ His father’s voice trickles down through the years, scolding but kind. _“That ridiculous squinting really will give you nothing but wrinkles, and an unpleasant headache.”_

“My order came in!”

“Geez, how long did that take?” Stephanie calls out.

“A month! Ridiculous, isn’t it!”

_Ridiculous…_

Stephen’s heart catches in his throat, both in surprise and in anger at his own stupidity. He should know that voice _anywhere…_

“So much for the ease of the modern world!”

Stephanie steps forwards to embrace her mother as she enters the room. “I made some lemonade; help yourself, Mom.”

“Ooh, lovely, thank you, Steph- oh! Are…” Lorna trails off as she spies Stephen standing there, his mouth hanging open. She looks so..._different_, somehow. “Are we…interrupting anything?”

“Oh, is this a bad time, sweetheart?” the man asks as he steps into the room, his back to Stephen as he hugs Stephanie.

_No…_Stephen thinks. _It can’t be…it’s not possible…_

The man, as if sensing Stephen’s eyes on his back, turns around, and Stephen comes face to face with a man he never thought he’d see again.

“Dad…” Stephen breathes. He can’t believe it. He cannot _fucking_ believe it. He’s finally cracked. The relentless, constant pressure of his job, his contractual obligations, his crumbling marriage has finally led to a nervous collapse. He’s really in a rubber room, restrained for his own safety, while distorted, warped visions of himself, his best friend and his dead father taunt him. “Oh…my God…”

“Stephen?”

From a long way off, Stephanie’s voice, worried and sharp, reaches his ears.

“Who is he?” Lorna asks.

“It’s kind of an incredibly long story, Mom…”

“My God, what’s going on?”

_Another voice I'd know anywhere..._“Jon?” Stephen rasps. “I can’t breathe…”

“Oh, God…”

“He needs to lie down,” Stephen’s father says.

“Is that the best thing for him, James?”

“He looks like he’s on the verge of a nervous collapse. Rest is the best thing for him.”

_Rest…_

“Rest lets the human body recuperate. It’s often the best thing, even when terrible injuries have been sustained.”

Rest…

Stephen thinks that sounds like a great idea. The confusing jumble of voices is merely an irritant stopping him from resting…his father wouldn’t be pleased…

“The couch in here is too short for him to be comfortable,” Jon says. “We’ll put him in with Jon.”

“Jon?” Lorna asks. “But aren’t–“

“We all need to be quiet!” James says, his voice scolding but kind. _Like always..._“Rest is the best thing for him, and he can’t get it while we’re all making a racket.”

Feeling her hand in his own - an experience which Stephen is glad to discover does _not_ cause the universe to explode - Stephen blindly follows Stephanie down the hallway to the darkened bedroom, Jon’s arms strong and supportive around his body.

He literally collapses onto the bed, and the last thing he is aware of before he drifts off is Stephanie’s gentle hands removing his shoes, glasses and tie, and his father’s gentle fingers on his wrist, carefully measuring out the beats of Stephen’s heart.

_“You’ll be fine, Stephen. Rest. Rest…”_

He does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.


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